


Star-Crossed

by InCeruleanInk



Category: Anne of the Thousand Days (1969), Elizabeth (Movies), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern Era, Modern Royalty, my brain isn't organized and i can't think of everyone and everything rn laksdjfkljds, so many aus! such little time!, this is basically a soap opera idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14591718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InCeruleanInk/pseuds/InCeruleanInk
Summary: Henry Tudor, Prince of England, has made quite a scandal of himself.  He's left two wives now for other women and thrown the succession of England into upheaval.  His first wife, Catherine, Princess of Spain, went back home after the divorce but his second wife, the intractable Anne Boleyn, isn't going anywhere.  But the King, Henry VII of England, has made it quite clear that his son's current marriage to Jane Seymour is to be his last.  There are those, however, who are not truly content with this arrangement...A modern history au.





	1. The Scandal of Christendom

Anne Boleyn

MAY 19, 2006

Cameras flash, crowds scream. Squinting, Anne throws up a hand before her face as the blaze of cameras blinds her. Citizens have come to gawk at her expulsion from the palace and her ex-husband’s life; reporters rush her, a throng through which she fights her path. In her arms, 3-year-old Elizabeth wails in a panic as Anne dodges from the palace steps. Above, Cromwell stands silhouetted against the dark, peering out a window, watching in triumph as she is expelled.

Shouted questions haunt her steps. _“Is this retribution for Princess Catherine?” “Will you comment on Lady Jane?” “What next for you and Princess Elizabeth?” “Will Henry marry Jane?”_

Anne slams the car door on them, pulls down the little netted veil from her hat to cover her face. Baby Elizabeth screams in terror as Anne pulls her tight against her. “Shhh, shhhh,” she soothes, heedless of the tears that rush down her own cheeks.

* * *

 

MAY 2018

Lives in salacious headlines:

June 11, 1979 - PRINCE HENRY MARRIES CATHERINE, PRINCESS OF SPAIN

February 18, 1986 - PRINCE HENRY, PRINCESS CATHERINE WELCOME NEWBORN DAUGHTER, PRINCESS MARY

November 14, 2002 - PRINCE HENRY LEAVES WIFE, PRINCESS CATHERINE, FOR YOUNGER WOMAN, ANNE BOLEYN

January 25, 2003 - PRINCE HENRY MARRIES ANNE BOLEYN

September 7, 2003 - PRINCE HENRY, PRINCESS ANNE WELCOME NEWBORN DAUGHTER, PRINCESS ELIZABETH

May 19, 2006 - PRINCE HENRY LEAVES WIFE, ANNE, FOR YOUNGER WOMAN

May 30, 2006 - PRINCE HENRY MARRIES JANE SEYMOUR

October 12, 2007 - PRINCE HENRY, PRINCESS JANE WELCOME NEWBORN SON, PRINCE EDWARD

Anne picks at each piece, scans the first sentence or two, sighs and turns to the next one. Her own life in flashes. Mistress, wife, divorcée, _whore_. She knows well and good what the people think of her, what the press has made them think. Pursing her lips, Anne drops the papers back on the table where they’ve been laid out.

“Are they really making you do this?” asks Anne, reaching for her coffee. Coffee, she needs more, she drinks it now like it’s a shot and she’s a college freshman hoping to make friends with people who won’t remember come morning. “You don’t _have_ to do this, you know,” she adds. “I could speak to them.”

Elizabeth sits at the table, typing diligently away at her laptop, but her mother’s words rouse her and she flicks matching brown eyes over the top of her screen, scans her mother’s wearied expression, drops those dark orbs back to her screen. “I’m doing it.”

Anne wets her lips with her tongue, walks around the table to stand behind her daughter. “It’s not as though everyone doesn’t already know – why dredge it up?”

Elizabeth’s fingers – hitherto scrambling across the keyboard at lightning pace – suddenly still. Anne watches those fingers – long and tapering like her own – stares at them hovering above the board and slowly, slowly, drags her own gaze to meet Elizabeth’s.

“You’re not serious,” says Elizabeth, narrowing her eyes. “That’s just it! We’re all supposed to do projects on our families but even the teacher told me I didn’t have to do it because ‘everyone already knows.’ But that’s just it, mum! They don’t! None of them _really_ know. They have no idea!” Elizabeth harrumphs, turns back to the keyboard. “My teacher wants to assign a family tree project? She’ll get one.”

Impulsively, Anne reaches out to touch Elizabeth’s shoulder, stops, her own hand hovering just above her daughter…Anne moves away.

“I’m going to show them,” says Elizabeth. “They’ll all see the truth.”

Anne sinks into a chair beside her daughter. “Your father won’t like it.”

“Then maybe he shouldn’t have done it,” retorts Elizabeth, determinedly. “ _I’m_ going to set to the record straight.”

Elizabeth is fifteen years old and her parents have been divorced for most of her life. Anne wonders if Elizabeth, herself, knows the whole of it.

* * *

 

Anne’s lips are pursed as they always are when she’s forced to listen to the new wife speaking. She thinks, distantly, of Catherine, wonders if this is how she felt when Anne appeared on the scene.

“You _know_ he hates to be exposed, you _know_ how he’ll react,” Jane is saying. “When Elizabeth was over here, last weekend, I found out about it and I tried to talk her out of it…”

Anne isn’t fully listening, she’s lost her focus (such as it was: she rarely fully listens to Jane, these days: Jane one of her _own_ friends who seduced her husband behind her back!). Instead, she’s staring at the pictures that litter Jane’s comfortable sitting room. It has no real style in Anne’s opinion, this room, but she must give credit where credit it due: it _is_ homey, it _is_ comfortable. But, then, Jane very nearly died giving birth to her son, and she was rendered incapable of having any more children by it. Besides, hers is perhaps the most unenviable fate of all, Anne thinks, bitterly: Jane is still married to Henry. Perhaps she deserves a little comfort.

Getting up from the sofa where she’d been sitting, (Jane is still talking somewhere in the background, Anne thinks,) Anne strolls to the bookcase to take a closer look at the pictures. The first one she spots is Elizabeth settled next to her half-brother, Edward, on one of the couches in this very room. Tomes are scattered in their laps and they have clearly been pouring over them with great focus for some time – the photographer has caught them by surprise, suddenly glancing up – smiles dawning on both their sweet faces. “This is a wonderful picture,” says Anne, airily (interrupting Jane, most likely). “I don’t suppose I could get a copy?”

Jane gets up, comes over. “Which one? Oh! Isn’t that marvelous? Henry took it.”

Anne might’ve known. She puts the picture down a little harder than she’d entirely meant to, thinking: _That explains Elizabeth’s sublime expression_. For all that he is, and for all that she often hates him, Elizabeth has only ever wanted her father’s smiles. “I don’t suppose he’ll be coming after all, today?” Jane looks sheepish and Anne turns back towards the pictures. “I might have known.” Anne reaches out to pick up one of the other pictures. It’s all of Henry’s children: Mary, now 33, is caught here around age 22, her younger brother, Fitzroy, about 19, their younger sister is about 3, their younger brother little more than an infant. They are at the beach and Henry is crouched with them, building a sandcastle. Fitz, laughing, sits near his father, Mary holds Elizabeth in her lap, patting the water in the castle’s moat as the toddler follows suit; Henry holds Edward on his knee, training him to dig with a trowel.

“Aren’t they all so sweet together?” purrs Jane.

Anne turns, stares, her look a pointed barb. “I wouldn’t know,” she says, turns away. “I best be going. Next time, I _will_ talk to Henry. Tell him I said: he can’t avoid me forever.”

“He’ll be sorry to have missed you.” They both know that’s a lie. Jane shrugs. “You know how busy he is-”

Anne scoffs. “Give his excuses to someone more gullible. I know how he is. I know why he stays away. Mark my words, Jane, your chivalrous _prince_ is a fucking coward when it comes right down to it. Goodbye, Jane.”

“There were things he wanted me to say to you-“ but Anne is already out the door.

* * *

 

Elizabeth is eating potato crisps on the sofa when Anne comes in the door. “Hey,” she greets. “Did he show?”

Anne sighs, sinks deeply into the couch beside her daughter. “Your _stepmother_ said he was _busy_.”

“You don’t need to say ‘stepmother’ like that, you know,” begins Elizabeth, offering Anne the bag of crisps (Anne eagerly takes a few). “She’s nice.”

“Like what? How do I say _stepmother_?”

Elizabeth cocks a brow. “You can’t hear that? I don’t think even my royal grandfather could be more derisive in tone.”

Anne chokes on the crisp, laughs. “All _right_ ,” she replies, ruefully. “That’s quite the accusation! Do you really blame me, though? Things were hardly congenial for a long time, you know…”

“I know,” Elizabeth responds. “That’s how I know she really _is_ nice.”

Anne’s brow furrows skeptically. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it would be so easy for her to be rude or condescending or something to all of us…but instead she tries, she does her best to bring us all together. It’s not like she gets anything out of it! God knows,” mutters Elizabeth. “Dad’s not nearly so nice about it, half the time. Maybe _you_ should try a little harder, too?”

Anne chuckles. “What about her sublime holiness,” says Anne, mockingly. “Princess Catherine? _She’s_ condescending to everyone; I don’t hear you reproaching _her_.”

Elizabeth giggles. “That’s a feeble excuse! Mum, you don’t care for her: do you _really_ want to be like her?”

Anne eyes her daughter, flashing a grin. “What do you think?”

“ _So_ ,” replies Elizabeth. “Don’t act like her! Try being civil. You’re _way_ more likely to actually see Dad if you’re nice.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re hardly encouraging me.”

“Come on, mum. You want to see him.”

Anne flinches and grasps the bag of crisps, pulling it away from Elizabeth and into her own lap. She scoffs. “I do not!”

“ _Yes_ , you do.”

Anne slides her eyes towards Elizabeth, glances away again. “Well, it would be more efficient than the two of us trying to have a conversation through your _stepmoth_ -“ Anne catches Elizabeth’s glance, presses her lips together, adding, “Through darling Jane, the dearest of God’s angels.”

“Mum, sarcasm does _not_ qualify as nice.”

Anne huffs and rolls up the bag of crisps.

“And your attempts to distract me from the conversation at hand are juvenal.”

“Juvenal!” exclaims Anne.

“You _want_ to see Dad.”

“What I _want_ is for him to treat his daughter kindly and fairly! You are as much his child as any of the others and you deserve just as much!”

“You and your fight with Dad isn’t about my rights or my inheritance, Mum. The sooner you acknowledge what you really want _to yourself_ , the sooner you’ll get it.”

Anne’s black eyes are hard as coal. She stands, staring imperiously at a spot just above her daughter’s head. “That’s enough, Elizabeth. You don’t know what he’s like. I don’t want anything other than what I want for you.” With a fierce scowl, Anne Boleyn waltzes from the room.

With a scowl to match her mother’s, Elizabeth folds her arms over her chest. “We’ll see.”

* * *

 

“Sorry, ma’am, you can’t go in there!” a person yelps, rushing up to her, his dress shoes making sharp clattering sounds as he runs.

Anne fixes him with her most withering stare. “I go where I please.” She does not pause: in one smooth motion she is still reaching for the office doorknob.

“Only members of the royal family are allowed beyond this point, ma’am, you-“

Rolling her eyes, Anne shrugs. “And who do you think I am? Honestly, have you never seen a single newspaper in your life?” He is new, she acknowledges that much. Everyone else knows her, lets her pass without comment or question. This is a rookie mistake.

“May-may I see your ID, ma’am? It’s just…it’s protocol.” Anne scowls, but reaches into her purse, anyway. When he sees the badge, he blanches, sweeps a bow. “Please, I-please forgive me, Miss Boleyn, I mean Mrs., I mean Princess, I mean Princess Ann-“

“Move,” commands Anne. He steps aside. Anne stares pointedly. The man gasps, jumps to open the door and Anne feels a satisfied grin pulling at her lips. “Much better. Please remember me, next time.” But he pauses as the door is opening. The smile dies on her lips. “What now?”

“It’s just-it’s just the Prince, Prince Henry, he said that not just anyone is to disturb him.”

“Well,” sniffs Anne. “I’m not just anyone, am I?” She pushes into the office. It’s just as she remembers – unsurprising, really, Henry doesn’t _change_ unless someone (usually herself) pushes him – a corridor leading back to the wider room, which features a massive antique mahogany desk, a roaring fireplace (he likes to feel at once decadent and _cozy_ ) whose mantle is strewn with the faces of those he chooses to remember (Anne notes without a trace of surprise that her own visage is not amongst these). Opposite the desk are situated two overstuffed, plush chairs. Dowdy, in Anne’s opinion, but perfectly comfortable. Beyond the desk are windows, a whole bank of them, huge and broad and flooding light into the room.

Before them, with his back to her, stands the hulking form of her husband – ex-husband, actually. He was always tall, immensely tall, and quite broad. He’s grown more so, since the injury he took to his leg at the end of their marriage, but not so much as he might: seven surgeries saw to his recovery, she can only suppose. He’s silhouetted against the light, a shadow scrawled across it, and Anne’s unsurprised to see him gazing longingly towards the outside world. If there’s one thing he detests, it’s being cooped up. It makes him feel caged.

Plopping into one of the overstuffed chairs, Anne reaches into her purse, pulling out the photos she’s brought, waiting for him to notice her, rather than announcing herself. He continues to stare out the window; Anne organizes the pictures she’s brought.

“What the blazes?!” He has spotted her.

Anne turns to him with a bright grin, tilts her head. “Dear Jane mentioned how very sorry you were to have missed me, due to work, so I thought I’d relieve you of that sorrow and pay you a visit here, myself.”

Henry’s still, very still, save for his lips and the space between his brows, both of which ripple with motion as he attempts to contain himself or else to frame an outburst befitting the situation.

Anne watches him pitilessly. It’s not kind of her, this, and she knows that, but then it wasn’t kind of _him_ to leave Anne to Jane. It’s not as though he doesn’t know how Anne feels about Jane. In fact, she suspects, he ensured it was Jane, and not someone else, for just that reason: to ensure that Anne would leave as quickly as possible. After all, usually he sicks Cromwell or one of his lackeys on _unwanted guests_ , these days. Anne’s smile tightens. She stands, finally, holds out the pictures.

“What’re these?” he demands, testily, walking past her to go sit behind his desk.

“What do you think? Anthrax?” she drawls, irritably. “Don’t be silly. Have a look.”

Henry glances at her hand and she watches him, watches him working through his mood, his approach. He always flees the negative and, yes, yes, his fury is terrible to behold, but that is _because_ of this approach he takes: pushing it back, pushing it back, pushing it back until at last it snaps. He reaches out tentatively, as if ready to snake his hand away again at the least sign of trouble, grasps the photos, and pulls them back towards him. _So like his father_ , thinks Anne. _Careful, paranoid_. Henry does not like what he sees. She watches his face carefully: the little markers of distress tracking across his visage like soldiers: a puckering of the skin in his cheeks, a jut of the jaw, a tightening of the under-eyelids. And then, predictably, distress is followed by anger. “What is this?”

He tosses the pictures back towards her and Anne watches them fan out across the desk. She worries at one with her finger, another. “Oh, did I not mention? You recognize your daughter in these, of course. This is a small number of the documentation, you know.”

“Documentation of _what_ , exactly?” He knows its coming, she sees that in the sharp expression – one inherited from his father’s mother – that belies the usual softness in his dark blue eyes.

“Oh, this is an array from across the years of the various times you’ve made Elizabeth cry, of course,” replies Anne with some relish. “This one is when she said that she’d like to meet Jane, her new stepmother, and _you_ told her – at three years old, mind you – that with such a mother as myself, she shouldn’t want anything to do with someone decent like Jane. _This_ one is from the Christmas when she was seven, where you announced you would take _all_ your children with you to Switzerland and proceeded to take only Edward and Fitz.”

“Mary didn’t come, either!” cried Henry, as though that made it better.  
            Anne eyed him, leaned back in the chair, folding her arms over her chest. “ _Well_ , then, that must count as having taken all your children, certainly! God, Henry, if I didn’t _know_ you were an intelligent man, I’d have difficulty believing it. But you’re not unintelligent, you’re worse. You’re heartless! How can you treat her this way?”

His face is black, brows trembling above his eyes. “Get out,” he bites out. “Get out of my office. I thought I asked you, long ago, to _get out_ of my life!”

Anne laughs. “And you thought I’d just curl up and die, I suppose? Anyway, I’m not here about us-“

“Us, ha!” scoffs Henry, coming out from behind his desk. Anne rises to meet him. “What us? You made it abundantly clear that I was never enough for you.”

A fire at the pit of her stomach. “Look at you.” Anne shakes her head. “You feel so self-righteous about what happened to us, don’t you, when it was all you! All the time, it was all you, and you have the _gall_ to blame me!”

He wants to take her in his arms, wants to take her in his arms and shake her. Anne knows this, sees it in the curl of his lips, the way his arms fold upwards only to stop. He doesn’t touch her, however much he may want to: he’s careful never to touch her, these days. Perhaps she should thank him. She thinks if they touched, now, hellfire would scald them both. “I blame you because _you_ are to blame.”

Anne holds a finger up. “No,” she says simply. “Politics is to blame. You know well and good that it was all lies, what they told you about me.”

“There were photographs!”

“Fabrications, every one! Haven’t you ever heard of Photoshop? How could you ever possibly believe that?” Anne nods. “But of course we both know the answer to that. You _wanted_ to believe them. In the moment, it suited you and now you’ve lived with the consequences for twelve years. Tell me, Harry, are you really happy?”

“I won’t have this conversation!”

“Admit it, Harry, since the day I walked out of your life, you’ve been intolerably _bored_. I was the only woman who ever truly excited you and now, trapped in a life by your own _pride_ with that little milk-toast waif…you hate it. You hate it!”

His face is a sneer. “I love Jane with every fiber of my being…almost as much as I detest _you_!” Anne watches his eyes, those dark blue orbs that crash with the storm in him, watches their fury drain and a kind of exhaustion replace it. Maybe he wishes to recall the words, maybe he’s just tired of her. Anne doesn’t know, tells herself she doesn’t care because she knows it doesn’t matter anymore. Even if he wanted to, he won’t take her back, now. His pride, and his father’s pride, constrain him at every turn.

Anne recovers, laughs bitterly. “There,” she breathes. “So, then, love me or hate me, I’m still the first woman in your heart.” Grasping her purse, she turns to walk away. “Keep the photos,” she says, over her shoulder. “I have copies so they won’t be missed. I’ll write you a letter – remember how you always loved letters?” she laughs. “I’ll send you a letter, detailing what each of the rest of the pictures are. _Adieu!_ ”

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Anne says as she strides in, her pumps clicking imperiously as she strolls towards her partner.

Her publishing venture with her old school friend from France, Marguerite Valois, is a roaring success and Anne loves it. From here she can enable otherwise unheard voices like Katharine Parr, who turned into a sensation after they published her, and Marguerite, herself, whose talents leaves many in amazement. And their publishing empire can’t be touched by any hands – royal or otherwise – besides their own. It’s a little piece of this world all her own.

“Forgive me for saying so, darling,” begins Margot. “But you look a little worse for the wear.”

“And feel it, too,” admits Anne, sinking into one of the seats at the table they occupy. “I had a little run-in with my ex-husband.”

“Oh,” Margot says. The word hovers in the air between them as they step into an elevator together.

Anne shakes her head, slowly. “I don’t understand how _anyone_ can be so obstinate!”

Margot sighs. “I remember when you said that like it was a _good_ thing.”

Anne laughs. “That was when it was the result of heedless passion. God, Margot, he would have done anything in this world to have me. How could I have resisted getting wrapped up in something like that?” She leans up against the back of the elevator, closes her eyes. “It was…intoxicating. But I guess that passion’s dead now.” Her eyes flutter open and she finds herself staring at the steel elevator door.

“Is it?” Margot forms a mysterious smile and the elevator dings. The door opens. Margot steps out onto the floor and Anne follows like a trained puppy. She wants to interrogate Margot, now, but she finds she doesn’t have the energy, can’t think of how to formulate the words she wants to say. Margot stops in front of the door they’re about to enter. “Are you sure you don’t want to reschedule? We can do any of our meetings some other day, you know.”

“No, no, I insist we do this. Believe me, what I really need right now is the distraction…” she nods. “And coffee. _Lots_ of coffee.”

“Fortunately,” chirps Margot. “I’m in a position to offer both.” Leaning forward, she opens the door and walks into the airy office. On a nearby table, cups of piping coffee await them. Margot scoots a cup towards her friend.

“Oh bless you, you are both a saint and an angel.”

“I know,” Margot winks. “Speaking of saints and angels…” Anne fixes Margot with a look. Unperturbed, Margot forms a smile. “I’m _assuming_ things went well with Henry,” she purrs, sarcastically.

Anne shook her head. “We both have works to do, Margot! Didn’t I just say I wanted distraction?”

“Yes, but how will we get any of our work done if we haven’t talked this through first? I’ll be utterly distracted!”

“You’re wicked.”

Margot laughs. “And to think, only a moment ago I was both a saint and angel. How the mighty do fall!”

Anne flashes a wicked grin of her own. “Never make that comment to Henry. _Either_ Henry. They couldn’t abide such a notion.”

Margot shakes her head. “No, I wouldn’t imagine so.”

“He…infuriates me, Margot. _No one_ can do it like he can! No one.”

Tilting her head, Margot folds her hands atop her desk. “Don’t you think that means something?”

Pointedly, Anne reaches out to turn on her computer, arching her brows officiously. “You sound like Elizabeth.”

Margot chuckles. “I’m honored. But Elizabeth speaks as your child. I speak as your friend. This man knows you better than just about anyone. Of _course_ he can get under your skin. Is it worth it, though? For everything you’ve been through…” she shakes her head. “You should buy a home on some tropical island and move there. There are plenty of beautiful boys with immaculate complexions there to distract you, no?”

“Mmm, that _does_ sound nice,” responded Anne, smirking. “But…to do so…I’m not running away from him, Margot, no matter what he dishes out. I won’t let him win.”

“Maybe, if you don’t let him go,” replies Margot softly. “He’ll win anyway.”

Anne huffs. “You don’t think I can take it, do you!?”

“You misunderstand, _mon cheri_. I meant only…” Margot glances away, sweeping her eyelashes across her cheeks as she glances towards the window. “He still has a hold on you. Is it not better to break that hold, for good and all? He’s a Prince here, he certainly can’t leave England long enough to do it, but _you_ can. Don’t make it a retreat; make it a triumph! Show all the world you don’t need him.”

Anne’s own eyes drop. She’s staring into her lap, but unseeingly, and thinking: _My God, my God_. Anne wets her lips with her tongue, glances half-shyly back to Margot. Her throat is thick and she swallows hard. _But what would I do without him?_ She drops her eyes, stares blankly at the desktop before her. “Send the first client in, Margot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I altered some of the dates to reflect how things might've gone in this au...but it's all v much based on history! As are a lot of the allusions I make in this. Either way, I hope you enjoy!! <3


	2. Defender of the Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He regrets the knowledge, regrets knowing the _moment_ that she leaves.

Prince Henry, Duke of York

MAY 19, 2006

“Is she gone?”

The room is dark, drapes pulled to blot out the press of people gathered outside the palace gates. Even so, the occasional flash of cameras seems to crash through the blinds like a flash of wretched lightning and Henry imagines that the hubbub of the crowd is, indeed, thunder. He wishes for storms or for mercy or for anything, anything else. He’d wanted distractions, but seeking them, he’d been thwarted by the press: gruesome hobgloblins who wish to rip him apart and photograph his innards for public consumption. He feels like a fox: chased, torn, and hunted, hunted, hunted. He hunkers inside with curtains drawn, hiding from the light. Outside, the crowds scream and Henry pretends he does not know why.

It was different the first time. Sending Catherine out was different: then, he’d had Anne by his side. He remembers Anne on that day, taking his hand in hers, kissing his knuckles. Henry sucks down a long draught of his drink. It’s stiff and scalds him on the way down.

“Well?” he demands, sitting forward in his seat. “Is she gone?”

He needs to know.

Cromwell is standing in the window, watching, watching, peaking between the folds of the curtains. A splash of sunlight from the outside world glistens by his foot and moodily Henry regards it: that glowing bit upon the floor, a pool of golden light that feels gaudy to him now. “Yes,” says Cromwell, at last. He does not turn from the window. “She’s going now.”

He regrets the knowledge, regrets knowing the _moment_ that she leaves. But he needed to know: he needed to. If he is to be stripped of distraction, he needs to know. Henry feels ill, suddenly, gripped with a sense of dread. His stomach tightens painfully and he feels ill, the urge to wretch. _I loved her_ , something in him whines. _I loved her to madness. Why was my love not enough?_

Cromwell turns at last, peering over his shoulder at Henry. “Are you so eager to have her gone?”

Henry glances up, holds the minister’s eyes. They are hard, those eyes, and unreadable like flint, but Henry hardly sees them, feels only the wave of confusion and of turbulence, terrible turbulence, now that she is gone. He does not answer the lawyer. _My world is ending_ , he thinks. He’d wanted to know the moment it was lost forever.

* * *

 

MAY 2018

“Get these out of my sight,” commands Henry, pointing towards the photographs Anne delivered. He imagines it’s the time of year: the anniversary of her humiliation is rarely a time of year Anne savors, though once she loved the month of May. She’d say, most likely, that he’s ruined that for her, like she’d say he’s ruined so many other things. His mouth twists into a grimace. Henry detests that she thinks this. He detests that _she_ detests him. He detests that any of this has come out the way that it has.

Henry watches as the servants hurry to shunt the photographs into stacks, and into bags, watches Elizabeth’s red-gold curls, the rosy cheeks, the sweaters and the sundresses caught in the photographs slide across his desk on the glossy photo paper. Unbidden the memory of holding his little daughter in his arms for the first time fans his brain: he remembers her tiny chubby fist wrapping around his finger, her bright eyes later so like her mother’s were still the deep blue of infancy, fluttering across his face, the ceiling, his hand before her. He remembers, too, the sweet wafts of her hair, looking almost chestnut as a newborn, and how soft the cloud of it was against his skin. He remembers his Anne, too, exhausted and pale, covered with sweat, but fixing him with a sweet smile. Once, hadn’t her smiles all been for him?

A servant reaches for the last photograph. Henry puts his hand over it. “Not this one,” he instructs. Wordlessly, the servants grasp the stack they’ve made and file out. He waits until they’ve gone, shut the door, then he lifts his hand, peers curiously down at the picture. It’s Elizabeth, his Elizabeth, around twelve or thirteen he would guess. Her face is calm, all save her eyes, and the trickle of a tear glistening in its expressive corner. Her hair is in curls, she’s wearing a fine red dress, all dolled up to go somewhere. Henry doesn’t need to read the back to guess that this is one of the occasions he’d promised to take her out somewhere…and changed his mind at what was clearly the last moment. The calmness in the face reminds him how often he’s cancelled plans, the glint of the tear shows him that this time, this time, she’d held out hope it would actually happen. Henry bows his head. It’s not a feeling with which he’s unfamiliar, himself. He looks away from the desk, flips over the photograph. He’s sees Anne’s familiar handwriting on the back but he doesn’t read it. He slips the photo into his jacket pocket, slips it into his pocket and walks out of the office, instead.

* * *

 

Jane is at home, fussing over him. The fuss confuses him, not because he’s unaccustomed to it (the opposite it true), but because it seems to him a play for control. Oh, yes, she fusses (‘ _What can I bring you, dear?’ ‘Take off your shoes, love, relax!’ ‘Let me fluff those pillows for you, darling…’)_ and, yes, even in her mind she’s taking on a servile position, but to him, to him, well – mightn’t he choose if he likes his pillows fluffed? Perhaps he prefers to stand. Maybe all he wants is to loose what’s in his mind, loose the moment, escape it all, and thinking of what he might like her to brings, summons the opposite to the fore. The truth is, the bitter truth is, there’s nothing he wants that anyone can bring him and it makes him feel bitter, thinking this way, when he wants her to be pleased without him having to please her. It pleases her to do things for him, and he can think of nothing for her do. Yes, yes, it makes no sense but this is his paradigm. Alternately, he likes her attention but resents her control, and he likes her control but resents her attention.

Especially now. He asked one thing – one thing! – of her and she failed him and now, now all he feels is guilt. Anne has a way of getting under his skin and Henry has never been able to escape the things he feels – good or ill – and the bad suffocates him, sinking into every pore.

Henry waves Jane off and watches hurt cross her face, watches her back away and he sighs – more guilt. “Leave off with it,” he says, tightly. “I’m not in the mood.”

Jane stands back from him, staring blankly at his feet. She has something to say and the knowledge of that itches down his spine but he has no desire to hear it: he’s heard too much, today. There’s another voice in his head, just now, the one that sticks. ‘ _Since the day I walked out of your life,_ ’ she’d said, teeth clenched in anger, fiery eyes all ablaze. ‘ _You’ve been intolerably_ bored _._ ’

“Harry…”

Henry doesn’t want this, feels his shoulders tighten at this idea. He knows she has something to say and, God knows, she has good reason to say it, but that is just the reason he can’t stand to hear it said. He turns away.

“Anne was here.”

“Hmm,” grunts Henry, striding up to the bar cart. He is careful in crafting his cocktail, he is careful to focus all his attention upon it and not upon his wife.

“I…I suppose you don’t want to hear about her.”

“Hmm,” Henry flicks his blue eyes towards her, knocks back the drink without breaking eye contact.

Jane kneads her hands. “Oh, what is it, Henry? You are angry with me. I can’t fathom why!”

Turning back to her, he arches his brows. “You say Anne was here?”

“Yes, she was. I tried to speak to her…I really don’t think she heard a word I said.”

He barks out a laugh, takes another long draught of his drink, drying it, and slams the empty glass down on the cart. Jane jumps and Henry regrets that but he forges ahead valiantly. “She came to see me, too.”

“ _Oh_ ,” murmurs Jane, revelation rushing across her face. “I see.”

Henry doesn’t know precisely what it is she sees, but he doesn’t care, either. Anne’s words have stung him and he longs to assuage that barb but there is a problem. He cannot change the past, cannot change Anne’s actions – it’s all _her_ fault, he reminds himself – and, therefore, he cannot change the outcome. He cannot be rid of the guilt. “Didn’t you tell her I was busy?”

“Oh, Harry, I swear I did!”

He licks his lips, glances away. This is true, he realizes belatedly. Anne had mentioned Jane’s interference. ‘ _Dear Jane mentioned how very sorry you were to have missed me, due to work_ ,’ Anne had said, her voice heavy with ridicule. ‘ _So I thought I’d relieve you of that sorrow and pay you a visit here, myself_.’ Henry glances away and, at once, he feels Jane’s fingers on his.

“Harry, I am so _very_ sorry she came to see you.” She gathers his hands in hers, kisses his knuckles each in turn. “Isn’t there anything…anything at all, I could do…to make it up to you?”

Henry colors, feels a rush of two things: desire, yes, and regret for how he’s treated Jane, just now. “Let us forget her, tonight,” he replies, taking both her hands in his. Her blue eyes focus on his matching ones. “Forgive me, darling. You know how she maddens me…”

He half hears Anne laughing at him in his mind: ‘ _All of England knows, Harry. All the world knows_.’ He shakes his head as if to dispel her, and Jane is kissing him, her lips soft against his own.

“Oh, Harry, sweet Harry, it is already forgotten, only say that you love me, darling.”

Anne is still laughing in his head, and, to spite her, he kisses Jane’s throat. Jane’s breath catches and Henry smiles. “I love you, my sweet,” he says. “I love you dearly.”

* * *

 

He waits in the car, gathering his breath and his courage. There is nothing else that will do. Edward could not get through to her; Jane could not get through to her; _Anne_ could not get through to her. Henry has no other option but to confront his daughter, himself, now that Jane has told him of her plans. Finally, the car door opens and he hurries the short distance from it to the door of Anne’s London _pied-à-terre_. Anne is not home, but Elizabeth is, and that, by his estimation, makes this the perfect opportunity.

He knocks; the door opens. He watches astonishment wash over Kat Ashley, who works for Anne and Elizabeth, before she sweeps a little bow. Henry strides past her into the foyer. He’s been here before, does not take in the understated old-meets-new elegance of the room as he bustles into the next and the next, looking for his daughter.

“Elizabeth!” he bellows.

Two heads pop up from the floor on the other side of the sofa. Henry frowns, leans over to find that a bed of blankets are lavished across the floor and, lounging on top of them are his daughter and a slightly older boy, both busily investigating a host of books and newspapers and occasionally consulting her laptop or his phone.

“Dad?” Elizabeth jumps up to her feet, tilting her head to one side. She pauses, confused, gestures finally towards the boy. “You remember Robin.”

“ _Robert_ ,” corrects the boy, crossly, standing up as well. He bobs his head (as if this were a fitting substitute for a bow) to Henry, says, “Sir.”

Henry does not, in fact, remember him, if they’ve ever met before, but he’s sure he will now. “What’s this?” demands Henry, suspiciously, regarding their altogether too-cozy layout on the floor…and the books that litter it which don’t seem to coincide with the more romantic image he’s been conjuring in his head.

“Research,” responds Elizabeth, shrugging. “Robin’s helping me work on my project. It’s for school.”

Her eyes glitter and Henry opens his mouth to say something terse, feels the photograph in his pocket and remembers what it is. Elizabeth, let down by her father once again, crying. Henry squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what, exactly, are you researching, Elizabeth?”

Her eyes narrow – so like her mother’s – and she tilts her head. “I think maybe you know.”

He feels tongue-tied, doesn’t know how to say it, but he has to. He knows from experience that Elizabeth won’t listen if he sends Cromwell or one of his other minions. Elizabeth, he has learned, is like her mother in this too: she cannot be intimidated. He is proud of this trait, ordinarily, but now is not one of those moments. “Elizabeth,” he says, trying on his sternest tone. “You may by no means publish any sort of publication about my past. I forbid it!”

Elizabeth gasps and Henry’s breath catches. His mind hurries to decipher the sound and, unconsciously, his eyes slide towards this Robin fellow. Henry watches with discomfort as a sly grin tinges the edge of Robin’s mouth and the boy turns cheekily to arch his brows at Henry. This reaction is almost as mystifying to him as his daughter’s – and just as petrifying – and he glances back towards her.

“Publish it!” exclaims Elizabeth, suddenly. “Oh, that hadn’t even occurred to me. You’re absolutely right, Dad! Why am I fooling around with this _just_ for school when there’s a much wider audience wanting to know the truth?”

“Wha-“ Henry’s mouth falls open. “What? No. No! Elizabeth, do you hear me-“

“I mean, Mum knows everyone on that side of things and, besides, realistically who is going to turn down the chance to publish a biographical exposé penned by the Princess Elizabeth, herself?” Elizabeth leans forward, putting her knee right into the couch, and bends forward to plant a kiss on Henry’s cheek. She makes a little _yip!_ of excitement and darts away somewhere, leaving flabbergasted Henry to stare speechlessly at Robin.

“Just like her mother,” breathes Henry.

The boy offers a small smile. “Yeah, they’re pretty similar…but they’re pretty different, too.” He clears his throat. “It’s not my place to say, but I will since I know it’s something she wants desperately.”

“What?” demands Henry.

“It’s just…you’d know that if you ever took the time to get to know _her_.”

Henry feels red rush into his face and his hands and his eyes. His neck feels tight and his shoulders hunch. “ _Excuse_ me?”

Robin shrugs. “Example: I’m her best friend and you clearly didn’t even recognize me. If you were ever here, you’d know me…well. Why do you think she’s doing this, if not to get to know you? Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he adds, scooping up a book or two and Elizabeth’s laptop. “She’s waiting for these.”

“This is _not_ the end of this discussion,” growls Henry. “I’ll be back to further discuss this with my daughter at some later date and, to be frank, you best not be here.”

Robin shrugs. “With all due respect, that’s up to _Elizabeth_ , sir.”

Angrily, Henry snatches up a few of the scattered newspapers, sees that they’re dated _May 19, 2006_ , and feels the air choke in his throat.

“You can take those, sir,” says Robin. “She’ll just get more.” He walks off with the materials in his arms to find Elizabeth, wherever she’s gone, but Henry hardly notices. His eyes cloud as his head bows. He’s alone when he buries his face in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this feels a bit disjointed!! I wrote a large hunk of it in May but never finished it until now. I hope that's not obvious but...I apologize if it is!
> 
> The description of the photo of Elizabeth is, as you may have guessed, in reference to this portrait of her: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/78/Elizabeth_I_when_a_Princess.jpg

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [best of the best & the worst of the worst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15298896) by [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens)




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